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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28728579">Funeral Rites</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esmethewitch/pseuds/Esmethewitch'>Esmethewitch</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Maratelle still doesn't know her girlfriend's name, Murder Wives, PWP, Rain, Sex In A Graveyard, Wakes &amp; Funerals</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:07:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,504</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28728579</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esmethewitch/pseuds/Esmethewitch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After Brendol Hux's military funeral service and burial is complete, his wife and mistress both mourn him in their own special way.</p><p>Or: Maratelle Hux and the Kitchen Woman fuck on Brendol's grave following his untimely demise.</p><p>A quick, dirty thing I wrote while procrastinating updates to Goodbye Brendol.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Armitage Hux's Mother/Maratelle Hux</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Funeral Rites</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span> Maratelle Hux sobbed, bosom heaving, eyes red-rimmed, nose running as Brendol Hux was buried with full Imperial military honors in the graveyard overlooking the sea. The Kitchen Girl stood beside her as Brendol’s casket was draped with an Imperial flag, and the pallbearers, his old comrades slowly lowered it into the grave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rain hammered down like artillery shells as though the sky of Arkanis itself turned out to mourn Commandant Brendol Hux, father of soldiers, savior of the foundering Academy, fearless in battle. And a complete womp-rat bastard to both his wife and mistress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl patted Maratelle’s gloved hand, plump rosy fingers glowing against black leather. Maratelle squeezed it. Hopefully, the guests at the funeral would interpret this as a faithful servant comforting the weeping widow of an honorable military man, taken by the Galaxy too soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl (Maratelle </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>didn’t know her name after all these years, and was too afraid to ask now) had suggested that Maratelle wipe her eyes with an onion before the service. But that was unnecessary. Maratelle cried, but they were tears of relief. He was gone. They would be safe. His death had been recorded as heart failure by a respectable physician. Technically he did die of heart failure, according to the Kitchen Girl. Never mind that there was something besides sugar in his morning tea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The service concluded. A white-gloved cadet placed a wreath of white flowers on the bare earth of the grave.  The mourners congregated in black knots, talking in hushed tones. They were nearly all military men, and occasional wives. Maratelle and the Kitchen Girl stood apart from them. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Should we mingle?, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she wondered. It would look suspicious if she just stood there. But she was a widow. She could be mute with grief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Admirals, Majors, and Generals offered her their condolences. “Thank you,” she tried to say through her tears. She wasn’t sorry he was gone. She was sorry she’d waited so long to get rid of him. She thought she was tough enough to outlast him on her own. In the end, it took her hospitalization and a hushed conversation with the Kitchen Girl at her bedside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know it had gotten so bad,” the girl whispered, long curly red hair floating over her cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither did I,” Maratelle grimly said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s got to die,” she breathed, taking Maratelle’s bruised hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We all die someday, love.” Using endearments to deflect from the fact that she still didn’t know her secret bedwarmer’s name was quite effective.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a flash in the Kitchen Girl’s green eyes. “I can speed up that process for him, if you like. No. I’ll do it regardless. He nearly</span>
  <em>
    <span> killed </span>
  </em>
  <span>you, Mara. It’s just a matter of time before he tries again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so the Kitchen Girl plied her other trade: killing. Nobody would have thought that this chubby girl with an open, heart-shaped face and freckled cheeks had made it through specialized training. That was the point, the Kitchen Girl patiently explained back in the Commandant’s manor. An assassin who looked like an assassin was useless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who did you come for?”, Maratelle asked, aghast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nobody you like,” the girl reassured her. “It wasn’t Brendol, though. But maybe I should start advertising two-for-one details; the target and  one cheating womp-rat wifebeater of your choice.” Maratelle laughed, high and nervous. The Kitchen Girl, with hair red like blaster-fire and soft as a fancy Shaak’s fleece smiled and laid her head in Maratelle’s lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd of mourners thinned out as the rain intensified, turning grave-dirt from the fresher mounds to sluggish brown mud, knocking petals from wreathes and spattering the little flags placed on graves to indicate their occupants' service. The Kitchen Girl drew closer to her. Maratelle’s chestnut hair was sodden, rain seeping through her little veiled hat. Ah well. This was hopefully an outfit she’d only wear once. She didn’t plan on having other husbands to mourn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her legs shook beneath her. They did it! They weren’t being taken away by the ISB and denounced as murderesses. Brendol was gone. He’d never raise a hand to her again. Or to the Kitchen Girl. She knelt by Brendol’s grave, heedless of the mud. His grave was drier, sheltered by a gnarled old tree. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her lover threw propriety to the wind and an arm over her shoulders. Tears mixed with raindrops on Maratelle’s face. Her mascara was running. She looked a mess. Hopefully, she looked like she was grieving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last funeral guests departed down the path back to the Academy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All clear?”, she whispered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Kitchen Girl swiveled her head and nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maratelle leaned forward, claiming the girl’s lips in a kiss, pushing her way in with her tongue. She tasted like biscuits and strong Tarine tea. The girl clung to her tighter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to fuck right on his grave,” Maratelle whispered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl grinned. “You want to lift up those pretty black skirts and let me eat you, right over where your husband grows cold? The man who had both of us, but now will have neither?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she moaned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’ll be lying under us, but he won’t get to watch, he’ll never cum. Not anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maratelle found herself prone, arms wrapped around the headstone, back arched. The scent of lilies filled her nostrils as her head crushed the flower arrangement. Her skirts were rucked up above her waist, her dress unbuttoned to reveal her small breasts, glazed with rainwater. Her nipples hardened in the cold, and under the girl’s gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t wear underclothes?”, the girl asked when she came up for air. Maratelle’s cunt sang with want.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she gasped. “Mama always said to wear clean, proper  underwear, so that if you died unexpectedly, you’d look decent when they laid you out. But she also said to be prepared for anything. Contradictory advice, right there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you not talk about your mother right now?” The Kitchen Girl’s cheeks were flushed scarlet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some of us didn’t get to have one, you know. And all you do is complain about her.” The redhead pursed her lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’d have a conniption if she knew what we were doing. If she were still alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hah. So would Brendol.” The girl kissed her breasts, then deftly stroked Maratelle’s core, pinching her folds and her clit, opening her with one finger, then two. She traced the outline of her hungry cunt, clenching desperately at nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Like a ravenous beast striking its prey, she dove back in with her tongue. Sometimes her little pink tongue would work furiously, then slow to the speed of waves breaking on the beach on a calm day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maratelle came, with a muffled scream that could be construed by the untrained ear as a sob. “Oh stars, beautiful girl. That was so good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” The girl pushed herself back into a seated position and beamed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to come too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pfassk, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maratelle buttoned herself back up, pulled her skirts down, and rested her back against the headstone. She winced as one floral wire poked her in the bum before lying flat. She patted her lap. “Here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl crawled in muddy, black skirts over to her, settling into the wet nest of her lover’s lap. Maratelle lifted up her skirts, bunching the fabric in one hand. She gently nibbled on the girl’s ear, then planted a kiss on her neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her young lover hissed. Maratelle snaked a gloved hand down the soft slope of her belly, and shoved two fingers down the girl’s pink, lace-trimmed panties. She rubbed her mound in rough, brisk strokes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll ruin the leather,” the girl said in one broken breath. Her heartbeat accelerated like a ship jumping to hyperspace. Maratelle could feel the thrill running through her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They got rained on anyway, what’s a little more moisture? Unless you want me to stop…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! Don’t stop!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm. I’m not sure I heard you.” She stilled her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t stop!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. That’s more like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She finger-fucked the dripping girl in her lap, occasionally stopping to grab her generous breasts through the thin, rough fabric of the only serviceable black dress she owned. The girl would whine at this, quieting only when the sensation of wet leather in her hole and on her outer lips and clit returned. At a particularly hard thrust, she’d make stifled yelps. Finally, she came, arching away from Maratelle but tethered by one arm looped across her chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maratelle stroked her hair and peppered her cheeks with little kisses as she came down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They got up and readjusted their clothing, brushing off flecks of dirt. Maratelle’s knee clicked in protest. They were getting old---no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>was getting old. The Kitchen Girl tried in vain to salvage the floral wreath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hand in hand, they left the dead body and desecrated grave of Brendol Hux behind them. The sky cleared. They had Brendol Hux’s Army pension, life insurance payout, and worlds to conquer together. </span>
</p><p> </p>
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